


Blue

by Whis



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Buddietines Week, M/M, Secret Admirer, Valentine's Day, pinning Eddie Diaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whis/pseuds/Whis
Summary: Eddie loves to write
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Comments: 11
Kudos: 105





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> For the Buddientines Week in Tumblr
> 
> Day 1: Secret Admirer
> 
> Inspired by a poem by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

Eddie loved to write. It had been his passion since he was a kid. 

At first, he wrote small tales for his little sister, something to get her calm and happy before she went to sleep, although he only wrote in his mind, words forming easily in his brain to create a full story.

When he was tottering in the frontier to become a teenager, he loved to write in his diary, which earned him a lot of jokes from his sisters and weird looks from his dad - _ that is a woman thing _ , he would tell him with something in his eyes that young Eddie couldn’t understand. 

When he became a teenager, popular, shy and silent, he loved to write poems behind the closed door of his room and imagine himself murmuring those words to the quarterback ears with his hands on his dick and tears in his eyes, full of shame and lust like the words he wrote.

When he was in Afganisthan he wrote letters for Shannon with words full of love, lust, rage, fears and blood; and he wrote tales for Christopher fulls of adventures, action, laughs, and regrets.

When he left the war and the soldier’s life he left behind the pens and the sheets. He tattoed on his skin the last poem his mind created and stopped writing. His inspiration stayed behind in the sands of Afganisthan alongside the first man he allowed himself to love and touch.

He thought he wouldn’t feel the need again, the craving to ink the words that his mind imagine.

And then Buck barreled in his life, knocking down walls and doors with the power of the sun in his hair and the sky in his eyes.

He bought the notebook in an impulse. Blue because it couldn’t be in any other color, with some cheesy quote on the tapes and sticky notes on the side.

He wrote all kinds of things because Buck made him feel a vast number of feelings that couldn’t be conveyed in one single genre or in one single language. He wrote his dreams and his fears, the things he loved about him and the things he hated about him and all in between. He invented tales full of porn and domesticity and he quoted poets and songs because sometimes his owns words weren’t enough - _ I’m not enough  _ he kept writing with different words and different colors when Buck’s light was threatening to burn him to ashes.

It was on Valentine’s Day when his notebook disappeared. It was easy to know who was responsible for such a despicable crime, Hen and Chimney weren’t subtle about it, and just with one look at Buck, Eddie knew what had just happened.

He was blushing, from toes to head and Eddie wished he could see the parts that he couldn’t see.

In his hand, he had a bunch of sticky notes and Eddie willed the ground to open and eat him whole. It didn’t happen, the alarm didn’t ring and the world seemed to be in pause except for his best friend walking toward him. 

“I have a secret admirer,” he says full of excitement and awe as if the idea never occurred to him as if there weren’t mirrors in the world and he couldn’t fathom the idea of people wanting him.

It’s not what Eddie is expecting and he doesn’t know how to feel. He knows his handwriting changes when he uses the stylographic, it become sharper and longer, more elongated, but he thought Buck would recognize it nevertheless.

“Is that good or bad?” he dares to ask after a second of contemplating life and its ironic jokes.

“Good I think? But she could be crazy, I mean, with my luck… I don’t know… Also, some are in Spanish, I’m not that good to translate and… I don’t know… She could be anyone… And I don’t even recognize this language”

“Swedish,” he says without even looking at the sticky note and hopes that is enough hint for his friend.

“Oh… I should have recognized that… I don’t think I know any woman who knows Swedish and Spanish”

Eddie debates with himself, with that side of himself that is always too afraid of being raw and vulnerable, that side that is still ashamed of the things he wants and the things he writes. He never sent those letters to Shannon and the tales to Christopher, he never whispered his poems to the quarterback when they crossed paths in the showers after the game and before they went outside to kiss their girlfriends. 

There is the other side, it’s always there, hopeful and bright and begging to be allowed to come out and be shown to the world, to his family, to his friends, to his Buck.

The battle is wild inside him, merciless and cruel. It always is.

“I’m not sure I want someone…” And Buck looks at him with fear and hope, leaving the words dangling in front of Eddie -but the hears nevertheless  _ ‘someone who isn’t you’ _ . He is beautiful, he always is, open and raw, vulnerable in the bravest kind of way, and Eddie wants nothing else than erase the doubts creeping in his gaze.

For the first time in his life, that part of himself that wrote all those things wins, and he dares himself to tear himself open for Buck, only for him

“Why do you think is a woman?” he says looking at his eyes and hopes it’s enough.

It is.

Buck takes a breath and looks at the pack of notes in his hands. They are colorful and they have all kinds of lines, cheesy and rude, romantics and pornographic, some are Eddie’s and some are not. But they all are honest and he wishes his friend can see that

_ “Tie me up to your wrist and never let me go” _ Buck reads, blushing all the way and Eddie is praying to God he doesn’t read everything, no here, in front of an audience that he suddenly remembers being there “that is one of my favorites”

There is more in his eyes, like an unspoken promise of doing just that, yet is Eddie the one that grabs Buck’s wrist and decides he won’t let him go. 

Suddenly, the words are wobbling in his mouth and he needs to say them, at least some. Cheesy and stupid as they are, they summon up everything, even if they are not his. Those are the words on the tape of his notebook, the words that prompted him to buy it and start inking the words that are about to bring him the happiness and the dreams he has been yearning for.

He gazes into Buck’s eyes closing the distance between them and murmurs the words into Buck’s mouth before sealing them inside with his lips.

> ¿Qué es poesía?, dices, mientras clavas
> 
> en mi pupila tu pupila azul,
> 
> ¡Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
> 
> Poesía… eres tú.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem that Eddie reads was written by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, it's a classic Spanish poem, and really, really cheesy, but it inspired me to write this  
> Translation, although it does lose a lot in translation
> 
> What is poetry? you say  
> as you fix my pupil in your blue pupil  
> What is poetry! And you ask me?  
> Poetry... is you


End file.
